


Hand on Heart

by Slide_Ruler



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Mention of previous violence, No Beta, Past Drug Addiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-29 14:49:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11443125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slide_Ruler/pseuds/Slide_Ruler
Summary: Additional scene post proposal, series 3, episode 1 set in 221B Baker Street.  John arrives at the flat still angry at Sherlock.  He discovers that Sherlock has sustained injuries while he's been away.  John tends to his injuries, but his feelings start to get the better of him.  Declarations, confessions and admissions follow. First kiss, carried away caresses and a bit of silliness.  Apologies to the mustache lovers.  Line borrowed from Jack Nicholson in the film 'As good as it gets'





	Hand on Heart

Sherlock is home now in the soft evening hush of Baker Street following the most disastrous evening, his hope torn apart, still bloodied and swollen about the nose and mouth, still uncomprehending, even after the solitary walk home that he'd planned to use as thinking time, but had become heavyweight brooding time. On all the occasions, and there have been many, when he had imagined his long-awaited reunion with John, he had never once anticipated anything like the awful scenario that had played out this evening. 

He had been so focussed on getting back to John, on getting his terrible task completed as quickly and efficiently as possible, that he hadn’t even contemplated the notion that John may not be as happy to see him as Sherlock had been desperate to see John.

'Damn Mycroft' he thinks, he hates it when his brother is right, hates that Mycroft had tried to prepare him, but he had ignored him in the belief that his very presence would be enough to connect himself and John to each other again. The only acceptable outcome for the evening would have been to rebuild the bonds of attachment that had developed between them, that Sherlock had thought unbreakable even in death. How had he managed to get this so wrong?

Sherlock removes his coat, jacket and scarf in quick succession and sits on the ancient sofa, in the deep sag in the middle, to process the data so that he can find a way forward, his mind whirrs and clatters into processing mode. He sits and thinks, eyes closed, a slight crumple above his nose, hands steepled in front of his face, lips lightly pressed against his fingertips. The room envelopes him in his silent reverie, the comfortable golden glow of the room eases his state of mind and seeps into his consciousness. The hazy hum of home relaxes his body, and allows him to just be still. Think, think, think he urges himself, John, John, John.

He allows himself the old luxury once more of becoming lost in his memories of John and their journey through the life they lived together. He reflects upon the easy companionship, the camaraderie, the recognition of each other's skills and talents, the surprising early protectiveness, the natural way that they settled into working, living and breathing together in the same space and the inevitable gentle entwining of themselves into each other's lives. The progression then, to mutual admiration, to lingering gazes, increasing intrusions into each other's personal spaces, private glances leading to shared amusement and easy laughter. This culminating in barely disguised jealousies and possessiveness, incomprehensible closeness with inappropriate behaviour tumbling in occasionally. Always coming together at the culmination of a case, to celebrate and recuperate, to give of themselves to each other the time and attention needed and wanted.

No wonder people thought they were a couple, they were, to all intents and purposes, despite the unconvincing denials from John. Sherlock had tried not to love John with his perfect defects and his flawless flaws, not to want John but it had proved impossible, all his earnest trying had just resulted in him wanting John more ardently. Alone, 'so alone', that's what John said at his grave and that's what Sherlock now feels, and it feels wretched.

Images form in his mind's eye now of John's rage this evening, of his words and dreadful looks, of the violence towards him. Deserved? He doesn't know. The answers are not in his Mind Palace, no point looking there, he can't have stored something that he's never known, never come across before. There is no point of reference for how to react when someone comes back from the dead. There is no acceptable polite societal response to a resurrection. 

Sherlock can't help but recognise that John’s moved on with his life and has become attached to another, is it possible that he's has made a monumental error of judgement and that he's lost John completely? Mary had seemed so self-assured, so confident in their relationship and in her ability to influence John that he'd actually been shocked, he'd had to re-evaluate his opinion of her. Mary certainly wasn't one of the many insipid women that John had dated in the past, she was in a different league entirely. The size and shape of his emotions overwhelm him suddenly, then one solitary, stealthy, sneaky ninja tear slides determinedly down Sherlock's face demanding to be let loose in the world, seeking escape from the confines of the intrinsically sad man that has contained it.

Sherlock's mind stills suddenly as he senses another presence in the room. He opens his eyes to see John standing right there in front of him, inexplicably clean shaven, one foot planted in front of the other, looking down at him, fists clenched at his sides. Sherlock notices the momentary look of suppressed anger on John's face, then upon seeing him angrily swiping away the tear, his look is instantly replaced with wide eyed anguish. They both look into each other's eyes for a long moment in astonished bewilderment.

Sherlock recovers first and quickly stands, "John, what are you doing here?" he asks, just for something to say, to break the tension because he already knows, he knows, of course he knows, how could this evening have ended any other way than this, than with the two of them here together, here in the very heart of their old life? John is always quick to anger, quick to strike out and when he calms down he seeks understanding and a resolution. He is now here looking for those very things.

John responds with a quick, slight shake of his head and says in a rush "I dropped Mary home and then came straight here, I couldn't..." he stops his explanation abruptly with a dismissive wave of his hand and a frown, they both understand that no explanation has been given and no explanation is necessary. John gets his free pass. John deserves his free pass.

Sherlock feels the mention of Mary's name as an intrusion, even though he had been thinking of her only moments beforehand, hearing her name from John's lips is jarring. It doesn't feel right to speak of her here, not here in their own private space, their private life. No invitation has been sent, no mention of her should be permitted here. No trespassers allowed.

John fires a quick look into Sherlock's eyes, conveying hurt and anger in equal measure, his fingers flex and extend, jaws working, teeth clenching, a deep breath in and expelled, then a downcast look to the floor. Another more determined shake of the head as if to dispel unwanted thoughts. Understanding descends upon Sherlock with force, he begins to absorb John's pain and feels it settle upon him as a physical ache deep in his chest, heavy, dark, cold and pure, like a boulder from the depths of a clear mountain lake. 

In an instant, John's feelings are all too much for him, too real, he can't believe that this man is back from the dead, he can't rely on his sense of sight alone, he needs more evidence, reassurance, he steps forward and roughly pulls Sherlock's arm forward to place two fingers to his Radial pulse. His thoughts rush in upon him then in inglorious technicolour, his memory takes him back to THAT DAY, the day of the fall when he had last tried to take Sherlock's pulse, and had been pulled away, wretched, fractured and shattered, leaving a hollow husk of himself totally bereft of feeling, yet feeling totally bereft. 

A sob escapes him, a hitch in his breath, he presses his lips tight shut to prevent any more tell-tale sounds from escaping and he presses his fist against his mouth. He clears his throat, and turns away from Sherlock, chin held high in defiance, after giving him one more accusatory look, a look that says, 'you did this to me, you made me weak'. The fight has gone out of him, only the pain and anguish remains, with the still lingering grief of loss, a grim bitter ball of pressure at the base of his throat, that he can never swallow down. He feels as if he has been ripped to shreds, never to be unblemished and precisely whole again. How can Sherlock expect to come back and put all the pieces of him back together again when so many pieces have been pulverised to dust and nothingness?

Sherlock is beginning to accept the level of hurt that he has caused, maybe the separation has hurt John just as much as it has hurt himself. He had imagined that he would be the one to bear the brunt of the suffering during the separation, had he been wrong? John's pain is plainly written all over his face and body, it is etched in the lines and contours of his face and the strained, uptight body language of his frame. He reaches for John's elbow to stop him from moving away, he knows he must act fast, do something to prevent John from leaving. "I'm sorry John," he says, " I'm so sorry. I was willing to pay any price for your safety, any price John, as long as you were safe, that's all that mattered to me. I had to stay away until I could ensure your continued safety, and that of Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. I know I should have prepared you for my return somehow first, I was too eager to see you, and now I've ruined your evening. Please you must understand my position John, let's discuss this further, maybe tomorrow when you've calmed down?"

John looks up at him then, presses his lips tight together and nods just once, he can at least give Sherlock a chance to explain, to hear the full story, and then decide if he needs to punch him again. Hard. Having made the decision, John gives Sherlock a perfunctory pat on the back, a small concession, but his hand stills over something that he can feel under the shirt. He frowns, fingers exploring quickly and immediately identifying something familiar to him, a wound dressing of some kind.

John pulls away, "Let me see your back" he demands, already in the act of pulling up Sherlock's shirt so that he can free it from his trousers, he catches a glimpse of his lower back and flank and he gasps. Bruise upon bruise, every colour and shape and size, old and new, some merged together, like a grotesque map of pain and destruction. Sherlock's eyes enlarge in realisation, he quickly grabs at his shirt and pulls it back down with a short, sharp "no" and he tries to step away. John keeps a firm hold of him, looks up into his eyes, another burst of anger flashing from his own. 

"YOU don't get to tell ME no now" John grinds out through clenched teeth.

Sherlock can sense that there is no point in protesting, and stares at John with a deep unfathomable expression in his eyes. John deftly pulls the shirt back up, higher than before and all the breath leaves his body in a great silent roar of pain. A dead eyed look away to deny the truth, pupils dark with dread as he realises his own actions earlier in the evening must have caused further damage when he'd tackled Sherlock to the floor.

‘No, no, no not this’ he thinks. He feels as if he’s been punched in his gut, he clutches his stomach as if in physical pain, his legs nearly go out from under him, and he closes his eyes and breathes noisily. He knows first-hand what these types of injuries mean, of course he does, he knows from his time in Afghanistan. How he wishes that he could 'unknow' this terrible information, how is it possible that his military life and his civilian life have clashed in such a colossally repulsive way? There are things that happen in the military, things that are meant to stay in the military, certainly never to be discussed or acknowledged with anyone in the civilian world. A feeling of poisonous dread and revulsion threatens to overpower him, he feels the acid burn in his throat, but manages to hold himself together.

Of their own volition, his arms reach out to Sherlock's broken body, and as if in some kind of crazy synchronised dance, Sherlock's immediate and complimentary response is to reach out to John, to hold him and let himself be held. Both men are now exactly where they have wanted to be all evening, although unacknowledged until now, needing to be close, delicately touching, holding, breathing together, no other expectations from either side, not wanting or needing anything other than each other as balm to the intolerable, interminable separation they have both endured.

Long moments pass, the world turns and shifts on its axis, then rights itself for the next impact of emotions coming from these two men. "Tell me everything?" John asks quietly nodding, as if this is a given, his right, he pulls back from Sherlock and looks into his eyes, a question, not a demand. "Not now, not today, but I need to hear it all, yeah?" A small nod of agreement from Sherlock's tightly cinched in face, a small snarl of despair to his upper lip and in the set of his eyebrows.

"First, I need to fix you up." A resolute statement this time, a no nonsense statement from a doctor needing to be a doctor, to administer treatment. "I've already been..." Sherlock starts to say, but is interrupted with a "Not by me you haven't". Sherlock responds to the pulling apart with a pang of regret, but nods in grim response as they release each other. He understands the dichotomy that is John Watson, both a trained killer, a fighter and a healer at the same time, both a Captain, a born leader and a Sherlock follower, immensely powerful and delicately gentle, it's one of the things that he loves most about him. John is the ultimate unsolvable perfect puzzle of infinity that needs no solving. To even try to solve the John Watson puzzle would be a crass insult of the highest order, a crime even, against humanity and Creation.

John collects the first aid supplies from the cabinet in the bathroom where they've always been, while the other slowly, hesitantly unbuttons and removes his shirt. John quickly removes his jacket and flings it onto 'his' chair, then steps forward and lets his medical and army training kick in, he needs both unequivocally right now, the discipline of a soldier first and foremost perhaps, he puts on a calm facade, appearing detached, although he feels anything but, and he immediately sees the restraint marks on Sherlock's wrists, he takes this in without reaction or comment, good army doctor that he is. 

He then sees the inevitable but incongruous nicotine patches further up Sherlock's forearms, he might have guessed that he would have been smoking again and probably those high tar cigarettes. 'Do I have the status of a four-patch problem?' he thinks and ridiculously feels quite proud, a slow blink and a slight hesitant curl of his lips follows. John then appraises Sherlock's torso with his professional demeanour, he's even leaner now than before he decides, not good, a lot not good. He glances quickly up to Sherlock's eyes, hiding his own feelings to ensure that his patient is withstanding his scrutiny without causing him further distress. He notices that Sherlock is looking down at him with resignation and something like fear. 

'Please, let him just see and not observe,' Sherlock is thinking, 'please, just this one more time.' Who he is entreating, he doesn't know, but for John to comprehend the extent of the trauma that his body has suffered during the unwanted separation is wholly unacceptable, inconceivable. Sherlock can barely endure this close scrutiny, he feels as though the doctor's steady gaze is searing his skin, and he desperately doesn't want to be seen in this state, he doesn't want John to think less of him, as a man. Sherlock starts to shut down mentally, to detach himself from the situation, he knows that a man can only take so much destruction in, without it leaving a permanent mark and he knows that John has already witnessed enough in his lifetime for it to be indelibly marked in deep rich tones on every inch of his skin.

How is it possible, John is thinking, that he now feels more broken than this beautiful, perfect, damaged man standing in front of him? He steps behind Sherlock to assess the injuries to his back and carefully removes the bloodied gauze dressing and tape. The rawness and emotion of the day is weighing very heavily upon him now, like the dull clang of a large ancient cracked and rusty bell.

When John has taken in every injury, every scar, fresh and healing, every vivid laceration on Sherlock's skin, something fierce, deep inside him, something deeply entrenched and fiercely protective and tender uncoils and makes him want to kill, to murder, to obliterate the perpetrators of this destruction to the very person that has become so, so very precious and necessary to him. John acknowledges these feelings and immediately suppresses them, he'll not be able to perform this simple task of healing if he relinquishes himself to his feelings right now. He boxes them up tight and puts them aside to reflect upon later when he's alone and can give them the time and space needed for further scrutiny.

John then starts his ministrations, competent, methodical, professional, looking for signs of internal damage and fractured or broken ribs, assessing swollen and bruised skin and tissues, wiping away dried blood, reapplying gauze dressings and applying soothing ointments. He lingers over his grim task, accepting and savouring this punishment for his anger and earlier triumphant feelings when he had acknowledged the heady satisfaction that he had left his own marks of anger on Sherlock's face. He recognises himself as the hypocrite that he is, why is it okay for him to hurt Sherlock but feel physically sick when he sees the evidence that others have also done so? He realises that he's been utterly selfish in expressing the anger coming from his own feelings of suffering and grief for the last two years, but what has Sherlock had to endure? Worse still maybe? Certainly physically. 

Sherlock is motionless, his feet are planted shoulder width apart, his arms hanging loosely at his sides, fists loose, silent and brooding and he retains the same grim determined expression on his lowered face as John completes his task by wiping the blood from Sherlock's nose, and lower lip, feeling the deep shame of having inflicted these injuries himself. John feels as if he has taken a sledgehammer to Michelangelo's ‘David’ in a fit of jealously and rage and he has never felt so unlovable, so ugly, uncouth and ashamed.

The mist of his remorse gradually begins to lift and his professional appraisal slowly starts to absorb more than a patient's injuries, his doctor's hat begins to slip, he starts to morph into the man that is John Watson, the man who has needs and desires that ache to be fulfilled by the very man standing in front of him. The fact that Sherlock is semi naked settles on him like a cloak of awareness as he starts to see past the injuries, to the beauty and elegance of his form. John feels his blood thicken and quieten down, his body starts to feel heavy and slow. He registers the shift in heat and tension that has assiduously crept into the room, he senses the strange new quality in the atmosphere between them, he acknowledges the raw awareness that now exists between them.

He has always admired Sherlock's perfectly toned arms, especially his forearms with their sinewy muscles, and the grace of his long-fingered hands. He remembers the numerous occasions when he had been mesmerised by Sherlock's hands as he had examined evidence and conducted experiments, but especially when he idly slid his fingertips up and down a cold dewy glass of wine, as was his want when he was thinking. He remembers how those hands had prompted his imagination to create filthy scenarios in his mind and obscene reactions in his body. John remembers numerous occasions when he had fantasised about what those graceful long-fingered hands could to him, could do in him.

John has seen this unabashed man shirtless numerous times, he has always received an illicit little thrill when he gets to see the symmetrical indentations of Sherlock's deep Venusian dimples, just the very sight of them has always produced a Pavlovian response in John, where saliva rushes into his mouth, as he thinks of pressing the pad of his tongue into those indents and sucking the skin there to make them bloom pink. John wants to set up camp there and live there in bliss, to explore at will. He has always imagined what it would be like to nestle his face into Sherlock's gluteal cleft and press and nuzzle and... No no no, what is he thinking, 'unprofessional John, un-fucking-professional'. Stop, stop, stop.

He can't stop. 

No force in the universe can counteract the pull of the absolute undeniable flawless maleness of Sherlock and the way that his trousers hang just so, low on his hips as if defying gravity. The physical responses taking over John's body are out of his control. Control? What does that even mean? Is that word even part of his vocabulary? He is mesmerised by Sherlock's lower abdominal muscles where they join his hip flexors to form a well-defined V shape. He can't help but notice the sparse whorl of hair on Sherlock's chest and the more plentiful hair further down and the beautiful patina of freckles, he drinks in the very sight of him, tries to burn Sherlock's perfectly imperfect image onto his very soul. 

John has just touched practically every inch of Sherlock's upper body, but he wants to start all over again with a different agenda now. He desperately wants to stroke and caress and tease, to glide his hands over him, to explore with his sense of touch, not just with his hands, but also his mouth, his tongue. Oh, by why limit himself? He wants every part of himself to be touching every part of Sherlock fucking beautiful Holmes. John no longer understands the distinction between 'want' and 'need', the professional boundaries and oath that he has pledged to uphold become blurred around the once so sharp edges and slip away quietly, guiltily into the ether. 'First do no harm...', well too late for that now anyway. This definitely feels like the wrong kind of right.

John can no longer resist a more intimate contact, he has no defence against this now, he has somehow crept over an invisible boundary and stepped well past the point of no return, he can no longer deny his feelings and respects Sherlock too much to keep this from him any longer. He has lived for the past two years with the deep regret that he had never made his feelings clear, that he had never declared himself to Sherlock, but now, unbelievably, the opportunity has presented itself so that he can address that. He gathers his resolve about him like a suit of armour, and summons the courage that the years of being a soldier in an active war zone have given him. He looks up at Sherlock's downcast face, reaches up and places his right hand to Sherlock's warm bare chest, over his heart. He takes a few moments to bask in the intoxicating glory that is Sherlock Holmes, a living, breathing answer to his request for a miracle. 

No response. 

Has Sherlock misinterpreted this action as a clinical appraisal of his heart rate? John now tentatively reaches down to take Sherlock's right hand and positions it over his own heart and holds it warmly in place to re-enforce his meaning. He gazes at Sherlock to try to transmit his silent message through his rapid thrumming heartbeats. 

Sherlock's brain starts to re-engage and snaps to attention immediately in full military salute as he becomes aware of the tension that has enveloped them, he immediately tries to assimilate it's meaning, he finally registers John's state of arousal and recognises that John is trying to communicate his suppressed innermost feelings. 'Hand on heart, really John? Really? The entire Royal Philharmonic Orchestra is suddenly in the room playing and the choristers sing 'Hallelujah, hallelujah. Hallelujah, hallelujah."

A tense moment of silent stillness follows as if the universe is waiting for the reciprocal response. Sherlock looks up tenderly into John's eyes again, with a sad expression, lips stretched wide, but not in a smile, he then brings up his left hand to capture John's smaller one that is branding and claiming his own heart. This is more than just reassurance now, it feels more like a solemn vow, a sacred oath and a terrifying covenant. They are now both gazing and falling into each other's eyes and are naked to each other in the honesty of their unspeakable feelings. The word 'FINALLY' is writ large across the over mantle mirror in iridescent, shimmery, hazy, ethereal, capital, shouty letters.

Words, sentences, questions and statements now demand their fair share of this exchange. "What... do you want from me Sherlock?" John finally manages, almost a whisper, an endearment, a spoken caress of loveliness. 'Please don't let the answer be nothing' he thinks.

"I... hardly know," Sherlock answers "but, ...something... more than we've had?" He finishes tentatively. 

"You'll have to give me a bit more to go on, Sherlock, do you mean...?", John hardly knows how to articulate his impossible question. Does Sherlock want a physical relationship with him? Does Sherlock even have sexual relationships with people or is he still married to The Work?

"I want nothing and everything." Sherlock courageously persists, shaking his head slightly, with his eyes now intensely, darkly focussed on John's mouth. Neither man would ever acknowledge it, but they both succumb to the magnetic pull of the other and move even closer together. A dark, foreboding meaningful gaze that grows inexorably deeper accompanies this exchange.

"Nothing and everything? Hmm... how does that work?" John asks in a breathy voice with a barely there brave little smile.

"Nothing that you're not willing to give, but everything you're willing to bestow" is the unimaginable, impossible growl of a response from Sherlock. John's emotions soar into the firmament and rest there to commune with the angels, he can only stare wide eyed at him mutely, mouth slightly agape in awe and puzzlement. 

Thighs are now pressed against thighs, hips and lower belly connect, Sherlock leans down so foreheads and noses almost touch and they share the same air to breathe together in ragged synchronicity. They cannot seem to allow the rude intrusion of physical space between them, not when there has been a far too wide chasm to breach for so long. 

Up until this moment, upon hearing this startling declaration, John had believed himself in control of this situation, in control of his emotions, but he now realises how wrong he's been. How utterly wrong and mistaken and unprepared he is for something that he's been hoping for years, yearning for even and yet never in one moment fully believing that it could happen, not even when Sherlock had been alive, before. Sherlock seems so much surer of himself now than John, so much more together, and in charge. How had this happened to Captain John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers?

"Yes John," Sherlock continues once he has seen the emotions play across John's face and settle, "I want all of it, all of you, all that you are, everything, John, everything." He presses on with the need to let everything out now, everything that he has held in for so long, consequences be damned. "Don't you see? You've beguiled me, captivated me and unconsciously claimed me as your own." A small secretive smile, "You're my conductor of light John, my siren call to bring me safely home, my steadfast safe harbour. You've become my shield against the black dog of loneliness and despair. I want you as mine." 

John feels the universe contract and fall in upon itself, zooming further and further down on them both as if some supreme being keeps pressing the plus sign on Google Maps in satellite image mode until there is only Sherlock and himself left alone together locked into this perfect moment in time. His scalp tingles, his mouth goes dry, his stomach lurches and his legs feel leaden.

"Please give me a chance John, please forgive me and let me back into your life?" A steady lingering, intense gaze develops between deep blue eyes and quicksilver ones.

Hearing this, and seeing the entreaty in Sherlock's eyes is John's undoing, how to respond to such an exquisite outpouring of feelings from Sherlock? Sherlock who despises sentiment and showy displays of affection is expressing warm and fuzzy sentiments!

"Sherlock, look at you, look at how ridiculous you are, with your cheekbones and your curls, those fucking lips and that seductive voice, your brilliant mind and ... all of this," John says lovingly, and waves his hand up and down in a gesture towards Sherlock's body, " how can I NOT want more of you, why do you think I'm here? I couldn't stay away from you, not now, not ever again. I'm done trying to fight this."

Sherlock is statue still and just looking at John then, somewhere between his eyebrows but not really focused, just staring in his general direction completely still, frozen. Time joins in with the enjoyment of this exchange, it grows heavy and glows silvery bright, then marches off to all points of the compass at once, just to add some mischief of its own. Their own heartbeats have to remind them both to breathe in and come back into themselves again, to reacquaint themselves with themselves and each other.

So many questions rush in through the gaps in the window frames with the evening drafts, Sherlock slow blinks for a few moments, then smiles at John, forever the puzzle - 'attracted to women and attracted to me, huh.'

All that is left to do now, all that CAN be left to do now, is seal this moment with a kiss, for there will be no peace until it happens. They both seem to realise that the time for talking is over, breaths become shorter, more pronounced, more desperate. A slight rosy flush appears on Sherlock's neck and cheeks. A slightly more intense, lazy lidded gaze with pupils blown wide is shared that expresses intent. Muscles become tense and contract tightly in anticipation and arousal. Heartbeats pound like drumbeats. Sherlock plants his feet wider apart in a brace stance, splays one large hand across John's shoulder blades, the other in the small of his back and pulls him in yet further. Hips press forward with more urgency and pressure and a promise. Nervous energy and arousal mingle and merge together to form a cocktail of delicious endorphins and adrenaline that they both ravenously gulp down.

John reaches up a hand to rest on Sherlock's shoulder and the other goes to the back of his neck. He feels Sherlock's hair at the nape of his neck his eyes slide sideways to see and he strokes his fingers through the enticing curls for a few beats. Sherlock melts into the caress and basks in the thrilling attention he is finally getting. John moistens his lips and then presses them lightly onto Sherlock's for a brief moment, the merest whisper of a kiss. Sherlock startles slightly at the point of contact, and then settles into a shiver as he remembers John licking his lips on another occasion, at Angelo's' the day after they first met. 

John is a salacious lip licker, the fiend! Realisation dawns, so that's how he's been seduced, a systematic planned attack from day one. Clever John, clever. John should be punished for his underhandedness. John's lips, tongue and mouth are a lethal weapon, they should require a licence. He will have to speak to Mycroft about this. But what would it be like to be kissed by a bona fide licence holder? What would it be like to have a licence holder use those dangerous weapons on him for other filthier purposes? 

A questioning face follows, then a hesitation and they come together again for a longer sweeter contact with one face lifted and another's lowered. Eyes close and pleasure flows. 

John should receive a medal for having perfected his skills in the use of his most dangerous weapons. Sherlock will have to speak to Mycroft about this. Oh...

A slight tilt of the head to maximise the contact, and they are finally, fatally united in a deep greedy kiss of perfection and bliss, a shocking intimacy and an everyday occurrence simultaneously. Tongues come out to play their sensual sliding, writhing exploration. A soaring and a simultaneous falling. A thrumming, a "mmmhh", a groan, a moan and delicious hardening and a tremor. They pull apart for just a moment to look into one another's eyes where they encounter a patchwork quilt of emotions, a heavy starry night's sky unleashing a multitude of feelings both familiar and right but also heady and new. So, right. So, so elemental. The very room in which they stand seems to let out the breath that it's been holding and sigh a happy sloppy sigh of contentment and closure.

All thoughts of Mary have left the building.

Minutes or hours pass in a blink, they pull apart breathlessly to reassess, to regard each other with new bright savouring eyes. Both men see the destructive beauty of the other, both men feel the impossibility of the situation, both feel unworthy of the other but honoured at having been recognised and chosen by the other. Both are grateful to the other for becoming the perfect person that they crave, both feel delighted at finding the other complimentary half of themselves, both men need, need, need from the other and are stunned that this need is reciprocated. Stunned and terrified, they are both absolutely terrified, knowing that if they take this to the next level and it doesn't work out, then there would be no going back and that the risk may be insurmountable. Should they risk the perfect friendship for a potential relationship? Can they risk losing each other again? More to the point, can they risk NOT taking the risk? 

Too many thoughts are interfering with this situation now, John is a man of action, and he knows when action is required; action is now required. John grasps Sherlock's hips and pulls him closer, to press himself into Sherlock's thigh, he can't seem to get close enough of his man. Sherlock pushes his upper thigh forward to press against John's hardness and rolls his hips in languid circles to give John the friction he needs, he cups John's face in his hands at the same time, which makes John feel like the most precious and cherished person alive. "Kiss me Sherlock" John demands whilst relishing the pressure from Sherlock's lean encroaching thigh. Sherlock pulls John's face towards his lips again, pulls him in for an even deeper kiss, with increased intensity. John groans out a seductive growl as most of the blood in his upper body rushes south. A jolt of desire starts at the base of Sherlock's spine and rises inside of him, tingling for a moment at the base of his skull to awaken his reptilian brain and cause havoc there, before growing into a molten ball of want that drops like lead into his lower belly to dissolve into a puddle of lust that dissipates into the surrounding organs and tissues. 

Sherlock starts to understand the meanings of words and phrases that have thus far eluded him, he starts to understand desire and passion, lust and salaciousness. He realises that he has foolishly been denying himself one of life's most profound pleasures. Sherlock has always understood the mechanics of passionate and sexual acts, he's had some experience in the past when he's been high, but has never felt the emotions associated with them, they all rush in upon him now in a heady adrenaline filled frenzy.

So much weight has pooled to their nether regions that their combined centre of gravity seems to have shifted from their chests to their hips, they become unsteady, they seem to be clinging together to hold each other up, legs become wobbly and feet now need more purchase on the seemingly shifting ground. A look in the right direction, they manoeuvre over to the sofa and sit upon it next to each other, still holding on to each other. They are now far too far apart, Sherlock pulls John onto himself roughly, John barks out a delighted laugh and shifts so that he is sitting on Sherlock's thighs, no, not good enough, they are still too far apart. Sherlock grabs a handful of arse cheek in each hand and pulls John sharply forwards, resulting in a splay legged sit on the bulge in Sherlock's lap, they are pressed together bum to bulge, inner thighs to slim waist and chest to chest. 

John now has the advantage of looking down into Sherlock's face, into his mesmerising eyes and feels that this is the most shockingly intimate position that he’s ever been in with anybody ever in his entire life, even though he is still fully clothed. The two of them are melded together in a perfectly engineered fit for each other like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, the one seems to have been tailor made and designed to complement and complete the other.

This wide open legged position is not one familiar to John during intimate moments, he feels exposed and as if he has been spread open to allow Sherlock entry to his inner self. There is no precedent for John's feelings of desire for a man before Sherlock, this is his first foray into a physical liaison with a male partner, he marvels at how compelling it is to feel the attraction of the hard and the taut as opposed to the soft and the yielding. These feelings of desire towards Sherlock are a whole different kind of thrilling, much more intense, much more intriguing, dark and dangerous. John feels seductive and thoroughly seduced and depraved, he needs to feel more intimately united with Sherlock, he wants to be immersed and submerged, he needs to be penetrated and taken by Sherlock. John wants to be claimed and consumed by Sherlock and feels shocked at wanting the more passive role. John is not the blushing kind, but he blushes furiously now as this thought slaps him hard in the face, followed by a backward cuff to the other cheek. Cheeks pinken and sting in painful bliss and lewd knowingness.

John is quite proud of his reputation and his experience, he has always loved openly, naturally, without self-consciousness, but he somehow now feels strangely unqualified, inexperienced, untouched and almost chaste. He leans back slightly and cups Sherlock's face and runs his thumb against Sherlock's lips as a little vulnerability creeps in. Sherlock bites down lightly on the pad of John's thumb, and then sucks it into his mouth greedily while looking intently into John's eyes. A jolt of shock runs through John's body, absolute shock and pure pleasure, pure and unadulterated pleasure as he realises a part of himself has entered Sherlock's body. Tongue, thumb, what next and where? No to passive, yes to active, John wants it all, John wants it now. His body responds without his permission, he can feel a deep ecstatic pulsing in his groin to the rhythm of the sucking of his thumb. John is now not much more than the sum of the parts in his pants.

John pulls his thumb out of Sherlock's mouth with a pop, and he rubs a wet slippery slide over and over one of Sherlock's nipples. Sherlock gasps out a breath and is caught up with the hardening tight delight that this produces, his body starts to sing to John's tune and John gets an obscene thrill at seeing Sherlock looking down to watch his own fondling, tweaking fingers. Sherlock looks intently into John's eyes after a few moments and blinks lazily, mouth lax and hanging open slightly and then he lets out a deep growly rumble. 

John's heart thumps, leaps and exalts in response, "You are so gorgeous to me right now Sherlock, you don't even know what you're doing to me" John says reverently. Sherlock responds with a manic little quirk of his lips and a forward thrust of his hips. Thrilling achy frissons of pleasure throb and beat a tempo of desire at the basest part of John and he grinds down more urgently, and it feels so good and right and perfect that he's unable to resist arching his back on a moan of thick, dense, molten desire. He mashes his lips against Sherlock's mouth kissing him hard, slow, deep and forcefully as he continues to writhe against him, taking his pleasure, fulfilling his body's carnal needs, starting the slow climb to madness. All the world is lost. All John's world is Sherlock.

Sherlock forgets to breathe for so long that the edges of his consciousness become dark, he becomes wide eyed in near panic, he pulls away from the kiss on a grunt and looks incredulously at the glorious, rampant, panting, wanton Watson on his lap. 'So 'wanton' is John's opposite version of 'unassuming'," Sherlock thinks, "how very 'John' that is". Sherlock's breath has been stolen away along with his heart and soul and reasoning mind.

Sherlock feels cast adrift in intense feelings of elation and thinks 'I've done this to him, me' and becomes flushed with feelings of immense power. He gives John a smouldering broody lupine look from under his eyebrows and groans in response to the increasingly pleasurable feelings as he starts to pick up John's rhythm and move with it. Sherlock throws his head back on a sharp inhale, John makes a hungry sound and takes this invitation to attack his neck with licks and kisses and sucks and teeth grazes with desperate forceful gentleness. 

Sherlock's brain has divorced itself from his body, he is no longer capable of coherent thought, he can only feel, sense, experience and accept his body's responses. He becomes dimly aware that too many layers of clothing are still between them. It's now Sherlock's turn to grasp the material of John's shirt and pull it free from his trousers. He unbuttons the shirt one-handedly without much difficulty and finally has it fully open so that he can push it over John's shoulders. John assists in unbuttoning the cuffs and roughly removes it altogether, flinging it onto the floor with the thought of 'get off me you clingy bastard shirt'.

Sherlock does a quick scan of John's newly exposed upper body, yes, he is right those dreadful jumpers have been hiding a work of art, John is beautiful, perfect, the gunshot wound the icing on the cake. They press their chests against each other in a tight hug, hungrily, greedily to achieve maximum skin-to-skin contact. An entirely new level of pleasure buzzes between them and insinuates itself silkily, slinking into their consciousness. Sherlock runs his hands over John's beautiful skin and explores the well- defined muscles in his back whilst sucking and kissing along his collar bone and the base of his neck. The intensity of their feelings and passion for each other increases exponentially now that they are free from clothing to their upper bodies. Sherlock finally has John in an intimate embrace of pure rapture. He wants desperately to mark John's skin, wants to put his marks of possession on him for all to see, but something holds him back, a certain type of awareness starts to tingle in the back of his mind, something important and pertinent but un-remembered. No, no, no, don't think, just do.

Their trousers feel uncomfortably confining and restricting, but it's too late now to start removing more clothing without losing contact, intolerable thought, they don't want to part. Who invented trousers anyway? Dreadful access restricting garments. Whoever invented them should be punished for their crime. How to gain access without breaking contact and interrupting things? Yes, that's it, cut them off. Yes, that's the solution, Sherlock looks towards the desk to locate some scissors. If he could just reach... no not a good idea, what is he thinking, Mary would have something to say if John arrived back to their flat with shredded trousers. 

Mary. Oh. MARY. Intruder! Encroacher! The 'No trespassing' sign has been flagrantly ignored. There is a Mary waiting for John, how could he possibly have forgotten about her? Thoughts of Mary brings impertinent reality back into the John and Sherlock equation. He becomes aware that they are on the very verge of not being able to stop and that John may regret it if they go any further. The world stutters in its journey onwards in shock, Sherlock's body and mind slide slowly to a sorry regrettable standstill. 

For the love of John Watson, for his overwhelming love of John Watson, he knows that he must rein himself in and put a stop to this right now, he knows that this is his responsibility, his alone and he mustn't shirk from it. He's been responsible for John's pain and he'll not be responsible for any of John's regrets. John is not a promise breaker and Sherlock is not about to ask him to start. Unfortunately.

"John, John, JohnJohnJohn" Sherlock says quickly, urgently, which makes John still and lift his head and look into Sherlock's face questioningly. Sherlock rubs one hand across his own forehead and down to cup his own mouth and lower jaw, as if he can hold in what he needs to say, he looks John in the eyes and shakes his head imperceptibly.

"John, I, oh..." Sherlock tries to form a sentence and then gives up with a mini shoulder shrug and a lip twitch. Understanding thumps John hard in the chest and simultaneously slams him with a thwack on his back right between the shoulder blades, he recoils in intolerable resignation, a look of absolute horror on his face. Deep jerky rib-raising breathing ensues, followed by several sharp exhalations of breath and a whispered curse. A little lusty creature jumps sorrowfully off John's shoulder and scuttles away across the room to hide underneath the furniture, liking his lips, whilst waggling his eyebrows and looking smug.

"No" John says unbelievingly, breathlessly, wrecked and light headed.

"No, John no, believe me I don't WANT us to stop, that's the very last thing I want, but I feel we must. What about Mary? You proposed to her this evening."

"But you're back now, everything's changed" John says as a sob escapes him. He lowers his face and his mouth and body become slack. "I asked her to marry me because she saved me, she saved me from myself when I didn't even want to be saved or even thought that I could be saved. I do love her, but it's a skinny, grateful kind of love. It only developed because you died and I knew that I'd never be happy again, well, not as happy as I was when we were...whatever WE were."

"Well, I can't help but love Mary too then, and if she loves you half as much as I do then that's a profound blessing. The more people in the world that love you John, the better as far as I'm concerned." 

John's face contorts into a painful grimace, and he presses his fingertips and thumb pads to his eyes and temples as he examines his feelings. John understands that they're not just friends anymore, but they can't progress beyond friendship at this moment either, and this understanding is detestable.

"No, don't John" Sherlock implores, he tries to stay strong for his friend but gives up and tears form in his own eyes. Foreheads then press together while they descend from their pleasure high to a painful mournful low.

John starts to move off Sherlock's lap in resignation, but Sherlock grabs hold of him to stop him from moving.

"John, please don't move yet, just stay here with me a little while longer, please?" Sherlock almost begs. Tears begin anew to spill down his face as his body begins to shake with the chocking sobs coming from deep within. 

"If this is the only time I ever get to be this close to you, then please don't let it end this way, this abruptly. Please John, I can't bear it, I can't bear it that you're leaving me this time."

"What can I do to make it easier for you?" John asks, always the care giver, voice flat not denying that it must happen.

A slight whimper escapes from Sherlock as he realises and accepts his fate. "Just this," he says, "just stay like this for a few minutes more."

John pulls Sherlock close and hugs him hard and breaks down again also. They cling to each other as if their very lives depend on it, they press hard and painfully into each other to try to feel anything else other than this exquisite pain.

As their desperation begins to ease, Sherlock pulls back slightly and looks into John's eyes. He pulls John sideways down onto the sofa until they are both laying on their sides facing each other, knees interlocked. Sherlock holds on tightly to John so that he doesn't fall back off the sofa as it’s too narrow for them both to lay on in comfort. They both wipe away tears and snot and wipe their hands down the fabric of their trousers. Wobbly smiles appear as they gaze into each other's wet lashed eyes. Sherlock outlines the edge of John's jaw with his fingertips, and slides his index finger back and forth under John's nose. "You shaved" he says with a hint of a smile, thinking 'you shaved for me'. "Well...yes" John agrees, thinking 'You know I shaved for you". There is no denying it after all.

Sherlock takes John's hand and examines his fingertips and kisses them. "I want to examine and kiss every inch of you John" Sherlock says quietly and looks at him lovingly, achingly. Sherlock's being loving and John's loving it.

John's enjoying this intimate contact, he's revelling in the fact that he's allowed to touch and takes advantage of Sherlock's shirtless state to trace the landscape of his chest and jugular notch, the fine bones of his clavicles, the defined chest muscles and the outlines of his lower ribs. He wants to explore further down and feel the texture of Sherlock's hair and run his fingertips under the waist band of his trousers. 'No, better not' he thinks. 

He continues stoking his hand over the sparse hairs on Sherlock's forearms and then rubs them over to the crook of his elbow, and slightly further up to that beautiful place where his bicep starts to swell into compact muscle. His sweet caresses delight Sherlock as he wallows in the adoration from John that he has been hoping for, for an eternity, but he wants his share of exploratory fun too. 

"Not fair" says Sherlock, unhappy that his hands aren't free to map the contours of John's body.

"Too bloody right it's not fair, it's not fair that you're this fucking gorgeous, and it's not fair that I love you so fucking much that your death all but destroyed me. Don't you ever leave me again. I can't lose you again. I just can't. Promise me."

Sherlock tenses, every fibre in his being clenches and contracts painfully. "Never John, never again" he promises, then looks questioningly, disbelievingly.

"I love you, of course I love you" John clarifies. 

Sherlock's eyes fly wide open in disbelief, he grasps John's upper arms as if he's going to shake him, a gasp escapes him and a jolt pulses through him, followed by "John, John take that back immediately if it isn't true, if you don't mean that with every part of you then don't speak it. Don't."

"Then,...if it is true, ...can I say it again? Because I love you Sherlock, I simply love you. Always have, always will." He shrugs, honesty shinning out of him sweet, bright and true like the smell of the earth after a rainstorm. 

Sherlock smiles one of his best, rare, genuine smiles, one of his just-for-John smiles that feels like the warm hug of a beloved cashmere scarf in the midst of winter. He's been transformed into a rapturous majestic lighthouse of happiness, casting his million-watt beam upon John.

"My dear, dear John, to know you is to love you, and I love you wholly, completely, desperately". 

"That's impossible"

"No, it's not even improbable", said with a curly, contented smile and an eyebrow raise.

"I don't understand why you’d choose ordinary old me when you could have anyone you want" John says with a crinkled forehead.

"Ordinary, John? You're entirely extraordinary, you're the most remarkable man, so exceptionally rare, you're selfless, forgiving, kind, patient and generous to a fault. You're the most interesting, scintillating, fascinating, un-boring human I've ever met." Can there be a higher compliment from Sherlock Holmes?

John shakes his head, side to side, "You saw me when I was invisible to the world, really saw the real me, you didn't just notice me, you took in everything about me at a glance and decided I still had some worth to the world, to you as well, not just as a flat mate in the end either, but as a helping hand on a case, a true partner in your life and work."

"No, you have that entirely the wrong way about as usual. Do keep up John. You were the first person, maybe the only person ever to see me for who I am, to recognise and really appreciate me for who I am. But I can only be that person if you're by my side, I only want to be that person when you're with me. You make me want to be a better man, the best man that I can be, for you. It's all for you."

John hears a keening noise and registers that it's coming from his own throat. 

"You've changed Sherlock, you're different somehow, more open, softer."

"Yes, grief and loss changes a person, so does loneliness. I missed you so much, I've been living with a constant physical ache for you that only let up when I saw you again earlier."

'Time for my own confession', John thinks, "I couldn't comprehend a future for myself without you in it, I actually stood at your grave and asked for a miracle, ...that you not be dead" John says in a broken small voice.

"I heard" Sherlock replies gravely. 

"But, I only asked for one more miracle and now you've just gifted me a second, your love" John responds, "How am I ever to repay that kind of debt to the universe?" 

They both smile the smile of the chosen ones, preciously chosen for each other and by each other.

"What are we going to do Sherlock?" John asks without really expecting an attempt at a response. 

"We'll have to let love find a way" is all the answer he gets.

John shrugs unhappily and gathers his things together, he indulges in one last embrace, gets fully dressed, takes the stairs and leaves full of conflicting emotions. Mycroft is standing at the curb outside, leaning on his trusty ever-present umbrella, next to a waiting car, with the back door already open in invitation. John nods to Mycroft and gets in the car without saying a word. Mycroft, steels himself, raises his nose and chin imperiously, enters the building and takes the stairs to Sherlock's flat. Sherlock is standing by one of the windows, looking at the already empty street below, overwhelmed by sadness.

"Mykie!" He cries out in anguish as soon as he sees his brother. 

This has an immediate effect upon the older Mr Holmes, he has only ever heard his brother call him his childhood name once since he became an adult, and that was when he had cried out for help in beating his drug dependency. It was the moment when Mycroft knew that Sherlock was finally recognising that he needed help and was asking for it, was serious in his desire to be free from his addiction. He had responded then and implemented the necessary steps to get Sherlock the help that he needed. 

Now he has heard this entreaty, this call for help again and his almost comical response is to take a long legged leaning back stride towards Sherlock with his arms outstretched to offer comfort. The precious umbrella is cast aside without a second thought, Sherlock needs him and he needs to be a consoling big brother. Mycroft grasps Sherlock in a tight hug.

"John loves me"

"Of course he does Lockie"

"But he's asked Mary to marry him"

"Yes"

Sherlock responds with a huff of breath from the confines of Mycroft's arms. "Try not to ever fall in love, Mycroft, it's too painful."

"Unfortunately, I fear your warning has come too late, brother mine. I have been bewitched by the rather fine brown eyes and manly physique of a certain Detective Inspector of our acquaintance. I must confess that I've been rendered almost entirely useless by the experience. Well, relatively speaking that is, I'm still by far the cleverest man in the civilised world."

They draw apart to look at each other, grins wide, eyebrows raised and utterly incredulous at having found themselves to be so unguarded as to have allowed themselves to fall in love. These two self-controlled, reserved geniuses have let themselves be bested by a 'John' and a 'Gregory'. How absurd, how terrifyingly delightful.

"Gregory is not aware, so please do keep this to yourself"

"I think you'll find that Lestrade is very well aware, judging by his behaviour around you."

Mycroft gives Sherlock a truly horrified look, and says in all earnestness "A move to Geneva may be most advantageous right now, brother dear, as I find I am spending much of my time travelling, yes that might be a very good move for me career wise"

"Coward"

"Yes, most assuredly."

Sherlock gets the love and comfort that he needs and a Mycroft gets the tumbler of Scotch that he needs. They settle in for a comfortable, companionable conversation of shared confidences and condolences.

How is it possible that this day has managed to contain so much; a return, a botched proposal, a realisation swiftly followed by a betrayal to a nearly fiancée, summed up with declarations, confessions and admissions each more alarming than the other. Surely this day cannot give any more of itself? Asking anything more of this day is surely tempting fate to its very limits of understanding and compassion. 

Unfortunately, this day has had to make a u turn, this day has had to end with a sad parting, an unfulfilled yearning, a renovation to a room in a mind palace, a ride home to Mary and a return to commitments and promises. Reality intruded and couldn't be ignored, the time for parting has been and gone, this day has had to end with John's honour and integrity mostly intact. This day has had to end. Obviously.


End file.
